


The Tyrant

by mudscience



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Identity Issues, Light Angst, Molly/Lucien-typical elements of death/rebirth weirdness, YES he's evil YES I think it would be fun if he was having an identity crisis, gentle assumptions about mr. lucien nonagon's headspace, the looming specter of Mollymauk, the m9 and tombtakers are more implied than actually present
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29274720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudscience/pseuds/mudscience
Summary: Lucien and the specter of a past he doesn't (is afraid to, refuses to) remember(aka being your own narrative foil can be a bitch)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	The Tyrant

**Author's Note:**

> baby's first published work! 
> 
> I knocked this out at like 2am in a feverish fit of never before seen inspiration. as such, this is largely unedited, though I have to thank Atlas and Sarah for being so kind as to read this over for me.
> 
> anyway, this is a little bit of a love letter to Lucien but in a "tell me what is going on in that head PLEASE god tell me" kind of way. I've been starving for Lucien lore since 2018 and now we're finally here (sorry Molly)!!! does he recognize the Nein at all? what does he regret? what's underneath that goal-driven exterior? we just don't know :)
> 
> enjoy!<3

You wake up. The feeling is familiar. Dirt in your hair, an ache in every muscle, your lungs tight. The feeling is familiar and you don’t know why. The first faces you see are familiar too and they bring relief and no comfort. They may be all together, dragging you from the grave to see it through, but togetherness was never the goal. Beneath everything, faintly, you feel disappointment. You ignore it. All of the shattered pieces of yourself have been made whole again. You move forward. 

The bigger picture is clear: two years is nothing. Two years is barely a grain of sand in the hourglass. You have shattered and dreamed of nothing but eons upon eons of madness. 

Two years should be nothing. 

It is not nothing. If it is a grain of sand, then it is one you privately, desperately wish you could force to become a pearl. But it remains, grating under your skin. You rarely allow yourself vanity and so it takes you longer than many would expect to speak of the tattoos. To those familiar faces, you brush it off with a laugh. The tattoos, the piercings, the baubles, doesn’t it all make you just that much prettier, you ask them. They huff and say it wasn’t you. They don’t speak of it again. 

The first time you come across a mirror, you strip completely. Your face, your chest, your arms, your back, your neck. Not even your horns are untouched. Your hair is past your chin now. You can’t tell which scars are new and which are yours. 

Two years is a long time. 

You stare into the mirror for what feels like longer. 

It wasn’t you. The tattoos are familiar. It wasn’t you. You were dreaming. You were shattered into a thousand pieces. It can’t have been you. 

It could have been you. 

It wasn’t. 

You touch the inked feathers on your cheek. You don’t meet your own eyes. You dress. You move on. Your grain of sand grates. 

For weeks, you feel almost normal. As normal as you can be anymore, a small and snide voice says from deep within. It’s your own voice and like many things these days, you ignore it. The goal has never been clearer or so close. You can not afford to give attention to anything else. 

You can not afford to give attention to anything else until _they_ show up. They’re powerful, sure, but pesky. Annoying. Fumbling. Amusing. You want to talk to them. You will kill them if you have to. They are familiar though, like your tattoos, like the grave dirt in your hair. The feeling grates, sand under your skin. Still, you want to talk to them. 

And so you do. They are more annoying than you thought. They pry and give nothing in return. They are frustrating and so, so familiar. You stare at them through the night and feel the disappointment well back up, blood from a squeezed wound. They only see _him_ in your face. It wasn’t you, you remind them, remind yourself. It couldn’t have been you. They want someone who wasn’t you. 

It wasn’t you. 

Still, you watch. You feel lonely. 

You will kill them if it comes down to it. The thought cramps in your stomach. 

You ignore it.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at tar-mairons on tumblr<3
> 
> (btw this genuinely is my first published fic here so if anything is wonky, please don't hesitate to let me know so I can fix it!)
> 
> thank you for reading!


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